“I have upset you.”
“No.” She weaved around the chair the same time a maid entered the parlor.
“A visitor for you, Miss Whitmore.”
“Thank you. Excuse me, Mr. Oswald.” With a hurried curtsy and a burn of embarrassment prickling beneath her cheeks, she left the parlor and followed the maid into the hall.
Lady Gilchrist turned with a handkerchief pressed to her nose. She dabbed twice, then fluttered it into the air with a mild noise of distress. “Oh, Miss Whitmore, this is simply terrible. Utterly unfathomable.”
“What is it?” Alarm weighted Georgina’s legs. “What is wrong?”
“Miss Simpson.” Lady Gilchrist said the name with a sob. “She is gone.”
Sir Walter was right.
The last thing Simon should have done was involve Miss Whitmore in his troubles. He should not be here now. The more he stayed away from her, the better for them both.
Inwardly, he lashed himself for the insanity of what he was doing. Outwardly, he knocked anyway.
Her town house door swung open before he could change his mind, and the butler stood on the other side, a fraught look to his age-spotted face.
“I am here to see Miss Whitmore, if you please.”
“Err, I fear she is not”—the butler glanced over his shoulder—“she is not home, sir.”
Simon nodded and urged his legs to move. After all, was this not yet another sign he should not have come? Yet something niggled him. Something amiss on the butler’s face, an unsteadiness in his shifting glances. “Is something the matter?”
“Oh, tell him!” A voice from inside the hall, young and shrill. A maid tiptoed over the butler’s shoulder. “Miss Whitmore has done something dreadful. I fear she did not even take a manservant.”
“Miss Nellie, you forget yourself—”
“Let her finish.” Simon pressed the door farther open, until the butler moved aside and the girl hurried closer.
Her wet lashes blinked fast. “I fear poor Miss Simpson ran away four nights ago, and Lady Gilchrist only now gained the courage to tell someone. It seems Miss Simpson was spotted going into the East End—a sort of disreputable street called Seeley Lane—but was lost before anyone could haul her back.”
“And Miss Whitmore?”
“She related her intentions to no one.” The butler shook his head, as if in disbelief. “Indeed, after she sent away a guest, we imagined she had retired to her room until just moments ago when—”
“It is nearly dark,” said Nellie. “Something must be done.”
“Something will be done.” An unexpected wave of determination rushed through him. “See that you keep the candles burning in their bedchambers.”
“Their, sir?”
“I’m bringing back both of them.”
CHAPTER 12
Gone.The word drove Georgina forward, long after she had rushed from the hackney and marched down Seeley Lane in the waning light of day. The ramshackle buildings, the loud flash houses, the seedy gin mills had all appeared wretched and miserable in the foul-smelling air of evening.
Now they were swallowed in darkness, visible only by haunting, candle-lit windows.
Gone.
Agnes was gone.
Like everyone Georgina loved.
